


A Nice, Quiet Evening

by Savageseraph



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Frustration, M/M, Prostitution, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/pseuds/Savageseraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nice quiet evening.  Was that too much to ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nice, Quiet Evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirabile Dictu (Mira)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/gifts).



> I guess this one is for [](http://mirabile-dictu.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mirabile-dictu.livejournal.com/)**mirabile_dictu** who planted this particular pairing in my brain where they promptly took up residence.

Greg Lestrade was picking at a pub dinner made only barely tolerable after his second pint when his phone buzzed with an incoming text. _Fuck’s sake._ He put the mug down harder than necessary. A nice quiet evening. Was that too much to ask? He growled as he thumbed on the display, then blinked as he read and reread the message.

_Trafalger Suite. Ritz. 15 minutes. Don’t dawdle._

_MH_

Lestrade closed his eyes, took a deep breath, released it in a heavy sigh. So it wasn’t the usual Sherlock Holmes fuckwittery he was going to be faced with this evening. No, it had to be something rather more remarkable to have gotten Mycroft involved. _Wonderful._ Lestrade was just drunk enough to consider texting back, “Clean up your brother’s messes yourself,” but not nearly drunk enough to actually do it.

Still, he rather fancied the idea of making Mycroft wait on him. Lestrade took several swallows of ale. How would that spin out? Would Mycroft consume far too many cups of tea? Would he adjust his cuffs each time he crossed and uncrossed his ankles? How late would he have to be before Mycroft sent another text? Or maybe it wouldn’t be a text? Maybe it would be a swarm of suits carrying enough firepower light up the whole damned block.

Lestrade sighed, then downed the rest of his pint in a series of quick swallows. Right. The sooner he got this over and done with, the sooner his evening would be his own again. And he had plans. Plans that didn’t include Mycroft Fucking Holmes.

###

Before Lestrade could do more than raise his hand to knock on the door of Mycroft’s suite, the door opened, revealing Mycroft’s assistant, her gaze fixed on her cell phone. He’d never seen the woman without the device, and he wondered if even a good fuck would be enough to part her from it.

Anthea gave him a quick dismissive glance as she stepped out into the hallway. “You’re late.”

Lestrade flashed her a smile that wasn’t particularly pleasant. “I’m never late.”

If Anthea was at all ruffled by his tone, she gave no sign of it. Her attention was already back on her phone. “You are tonight.” She stepped around him, walking down the hall without a single glance back.

Lestrade stepped into the suite, closed the door behind him. The sitting room was empty, and Lestrade extracted his own phone from his jacket pocket. 8:00. If he got out of here in short order, his whole night wouldn’t be buggered beyond belief.

“Just a moment, Inspector.”

Mycroft’s voice came from the bedroom, and Lestrade couldn’t quite squelch a wicked grin. Maybe he’d ask Mycroft about Anthea and the phone during sex. Lestrade studied the room as he waited for Mycroft to emerge. It was no wonder the elder Holmes favored the suite: it was as rigid and stuffy as the man himself.

“There we are, Inspector. Apologies for keeping you waiting.”

It was bad enough that Mycroft was clearly more amused than apologetic, but then he had to stroll out of the bedroom in nothing but one of the hotel’s bathrobes. A bathrobe for fuck’s sake. Lestrade felt his pulse pounding at his temples. He closed his eyes long enough to take and release a deep breath. _Find out what the man wants, and get out. Don’t let him distract you._

“So then, what’s Sherlock done this time?” That was, perhaps, a bit more abrupt than Lestrade would have liked. If Mycroft called him on it, he wasn’t sure his temper would let him get out an apology.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft sounded legitimately perplexed.

“Yes. Sherlock.” Lestrade gestured around the suite. “I don’t usually get summons on my off hours in the middle of dinner unless he’s done something spectacular.”

Mycroft made a dismissive sound. “I’m not certain that pub fare you were meditating over qualifies as dinner.”

“My eating habits are none of your--” Lestrade bit off the rest of the words that threatened to spill out. Anger at his soon-to-be-ex-wife. At himself. At all the unsatisfying meals and unsatisfying sex he’d had since she left. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard. “Why am I here?”

“Ah, that’s getting right to it.” Mycroft sat in one of the high-backed chairs, gestured for Lestrade to sit on the sofa.

“I’ll stand. Thanks.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

After a few moments of Mycroft staring at him, just staring, Lestrade muttered, “Fuck’s sake,” under his breath and sat heavily on the sofa, giving Mycroft an impatient glare.

Mycroft nodded approvingly. “We have a problem, Inspector.”

Of course, there was a problem. The two of them wouldn’t be here otherwise. “I thought you said this wasn’t about Sherlock.”

“It isn’t.” A pause. “Not directly. It’s about you.”

“Me?” Lestrade eyed Mycroft suspiciously.

“Yes, more specifically your…personal situation.”

“I don’t see what business that is of yours.” Lestrade rose, hoping he could make it out of the room without telling Mycroft to fuck himself.

“Do sit down, Inspector.” The words were sharp as a whip crack, and even though Mycroft didn’t move so much as a muscle he suddenly seemed more formidable.

Lestrade knew he should walk out, leave, never call Sherlock in on another case. Never answer another of Mycroft’s summons. While his brain urged him to move, his body stayed still, rigid, wanting fight more than flight.

“Your current situation is my business because of your connection to Sherlock.” Mycroft’s tone indicated this should be obvious. “You keep him from being bored, which keeps him out of the worst kinds of trouble his kind are prone to. This depends on your reputation and position as an officer of the Yard who is above reproach. I think we both realize your recent proclivities call your good judgment into question, yes?”

Lestrade flushed, took several steps toward Mycroft. He wanted to grab him by the robe, pull him up, and demonstrate how little he appreciated being spied on. “You goddamned bastard. You have _no_ right.” He hated that his voice shook.

“I know what I need to know, Inspector. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

 _Just once._ Lestrade wished that just once he’d be there when Mycroft’s insufferable calm snapped. He wondered what it would take.

“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be concerned with your whoring, but I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your attention that your ‘companions’ have a certain _type_.

Lestrade’s whole body tightened. He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to have Mycroft have noticed something he thought he’d been careful to conceal.

“You know what I mean, don’t you, Inspector?” Mycroft’s gaze was fixed on him. “Just this side of heroin chic. Dark, tousled hair. Sly smile. Do you imagine they’re my brother when you’re fucking them?”

Lestrade raised a hand, trembling finger pointing at Mycroft. “Just one fucking minute--”

“Do you think their bodies are as tight as his is sure to be when you slide into them? When they ask for more or to give it to them harder, do you imagine it’s my brother, his voice tight and ragged with need?”

The words tightened Lestrade’s throat, blood drained from his face and he knew exactly where it was headed. _Jesus Fucking Christ. This isn’t happening. It can’t fucking be happening._

“Maybe it’s the hands. Do you hope they’re as precise and efficient as Sherlock’s when they’re stroking you and stretching you open for their cocks? Maybe you imagine they would leave bruises on your hips like his would when he pulled you back into his thrusts.”

Lestrade curled his hands into fists. He wasn’t going to adjust himself no matter how snug and uncomfortable his trousers had grown. Mycroft might have made him hard, but he’d be damned if he gave the bastard more than that.

“Don’t you see the danger, Inspector?” Mycroft rose, stopped close enough that Lestrade could smell fancy hotel soap and shampoo. “What if you go over to his flat after one of your nights out? What if you go there expecting something I’m reasonably certain you aren’t going to be permitted to have? What then?”

“I would never—“ Lestrade shook his head, carded his fingers through his own hair. “ _Never._ ”

“That’s right. You won’t ever. I’ll see to that, Inspector.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. He growled softly. “And just what the fuck do you intend on doing about it, Mycroft?”

Mycroft stepped closer until their bodies were touching. His gaze was locked with Lestrade’s. “I’m going to give you what you’ve been looking for in all those back-alley encounters.”

“You’re not going to…” Lestrade shook his head. “I’m not letting you....”

“Oh, I assure you, Inspector, I am.” Mycroft smiled, traced Lestrade’s jaw with one finger. “And you are.”


End file.
